


Where the Stars Will Go

by scifishipper



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: Epilogue, F/M, Identity, Redemption, Romance, Russian Mafia, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifishipper/pseuds/scifishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikolai tries to adjust to a new life in America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Stars Will Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psikeval](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/gifts).



Nikolai pulls up his trousers and zips, fastening his belt while the tattooist cleans his machine. The tattoo is a satisfying dull throb on the back of his thigh. A heavy black spider on a tattered web, crawling down his leg. A final tattoo to mark the end of his journey with the Vory. He begins a new life now in America.

“What is cost?” Nikolai asks, reaching into his jacket to pull out a wad of dollars.

“Two hundred,” the tattooist says, turning to face him. He is young, maybe twenty-five with a wide ribbon of black tattoo around his neck. More a collar than a tattoo, Nikolai thinks. He wonders who he is slave to.

Nikolai catches coins between the bills and they jingle on the hard floor. The tattooist glances down and bends to retrieve them. 

“Leave them. I do not want them.” Nikolai’s long days infiltrating the Vory still influence him. He cannot touch the floor, won’t accept a dirty item. Feels the disgust he conditioned in himself long ago.

“You sure?” The man gives him an odd expression, one pierced eyebrow spiking in question. This man has no recognition of the other tattoos on his body, how he earned them. Nikolai refused to answer when he asked his questions. Better, he’d learned, to reveal nothing.

“Consider it extra tip,” Nikolai says and gives a faint smile. 

“Sure, man,” he answers. He scoops up the couple of silver coins and drops them onto the table near the trays of ink. 

Nikolai flicks out four fifties and a twenty, feeling odd to pay outright. He lets out a slow breath. He must adjust. He drops the bills onto the counter, tucks away his money, and turns to leave.

“Hey. Here’s some ointment. Apply twice a day for four days, then keep it clean.” The tattooist slides two rectangular packets across the table. 

Nikolai scowls at him and shoves the door open, the sharp jangle of the door’s bell sounding overhead. The softness of this life he cannot understand.

* * *

“Christine, darling, where are your shoes? We’re going to be late.” Anna searches under the couch and behind the chair for the missing item. Christine ignores her question as she takes apart the matryoshka dolls again, dropping the littlest one under the kitchen table.

“Oh, my goodness, Chrissy!” Anna huffs in frustration. “You are going to cry if you lose the little one again.” Anna, already on her hands and knees, crawls towards the table and picks up the tiny yellow figure, half the size of her pinky finger. “Here it is, love. Now put those back together. We’re leaving in a minute.” 

“Okay, mommy,” the girl answers, and drops the tiny figure into its bigger “sister,” as she calls them. Christine is taking the dolls, a gift from her uncle, to school to show her class. 

“Ah ha!” Anna exclaims. The blue shoe she’d been searching for is across the room. “Here is your shoe. Come now, turn around.” Anna shifts the girl around on the chair as she builds the dolls back up again, nesting them one after the other until the biggest one is finally put together. 

“All right. Go put the dolls into your pack.” Christine jumps off the chair and skips her way towards the door. 

They put on their jackets and Anna grabs her keys and bag. “Let’s go, angel.” Anna swings open the door and jumps back, pushing Christina behind her. A man in a black suit and glasses blocks her view of the street.

“Anna Khitrova?” He speaks with a faint Russian accent.

“Yes. What do you want?” She knows instinctively this is about the _Vory v Zakone_. She thought that had ended with the raid on the Trans-Siberia three years prior. It was said that the Russians were expelled or jailed. Even Nikolai. She has tried not to think about it.

“I have a delivery for you. It was to be made in person.” The man smiles officiously and hands Anna medium-sized envelope. 

Anna hesitates, then accepts the package with nothing more than her name in black ink. “Is that all?” She moves to close the door, put distance between this man and Christine.

The man nods, and bends towards her to say softly, “ _Do svidaniya, Anna Ivanovna_.” He holds her eyes for a moment, dark and serious, and releases them only after her realization is apparent. No one has called her that since that night at the wharf. Nikolai. How can it be?

Her fingers shake as she rips open the envelope. She has never been afraid of the truth, but the risks of Christine’s birth will always frighten her.

Inside, she finds a white envelope, and a red, white and blue British Airways packet. She flips it open and examines it. Inside, two tickets to New York. _Anna Khitrova, Christine Khitrova._ First class.

“Oh, my god.” Anna sits heavily onto a chair and opens the white envelope with shaking fingers.

_Anna Ivanovna,_

_I have waited many years to write this letter. Please come to America. I have much to show you._

The letter is unsigned, but she knows who has sent it. Try as she might, she never believed he was gone from her life.

With a strong breath inward, she stands and stuffs the items back into the torn envelope. “Christine, love. Let’s go. We’re late for school.” She pulls her daughter’s hand and leads them out of their flat. 

* * *

Nikolai crosses the busy traffic lane to the international gate at JFK. The snow has been falling for an hour and there is a fine white coating on the tops of the cabs and black limousines that pick up arriving passengers. The snow makes him feel at home, more than in the long, hot New York summers when he longs for Russia. 

The international terminal is busy, with throngs of brown-faced and Asian people gathering their luggage and hugging relatives. He does not know if Anna and Christine are coming; he has vowed to be surprised and to let fate take its course. He believes they will come and so he has planned many details to entertain them. 

He has made a sign for them, like a proper driver, so they will find him when they arrive. It is one hour since their plane has landed and he watches the two sets of doors, looking for a woman and a child, and begins to suspect that they have not come. 

Nikolai waits, nonetheless, and will check on her if she does not appear in another half an hour. The stream of passengers thins and the doors do not open for a few minutes. When they do, Anna appears, her blonde hair brighter and longer than before, down past her shoulders but still just tucked haphazardly behind her ears. He suppresses a grin. She is as beautiful as he remembers.

Stepping forward, he raises his sign and she catches sight of him. She smiles, tentative, then growing wider as she approaches. She is dressed in simple jeans and a green sweater with a scarf and coat over her arm. He does not reach for her to kiss her cheeks. 

“I see you’ve sent a driver,” she says, pulling her suitcase next to her. Her tone holds amusement, but her eyes seem serious. Many things have happened since they last met. 

“Yes. Driver is here.” He gives a small formal bow and then lets himself grin. “You have come alone? Unless you have put little one in your suitcase.” 

She chuckles at his joke. “Christine is with my mother,” she answers and offers no more. She looks past him and out the windows behind where they are standing.

“I will get car now. You will wait here.” Nikolai motions towards an empty seat along the wall.

“No, I’ll come with you. Is it far?” Anna asks. He admires her independence.

“Not far. In garage. I will take bag.” Nikolai reaches for the bag and Anna lets him have it. Their faces are close for a moment and he remembers the kiss on the wharf. How he wanted more. 

It is Anna who steps aside and Nikolai pulls the bag between them as they walk around a cluster of baggage carts and outside into the snow.

They do not speak until she is in the back seat of his silver Mercedes. This is familiar for them, he as driver and she as passenger. It is a good idea, he thinks. She does not know the man he is now. And he can see her face in the mirror when she does not notice.

“How long have you been in New York, Nikolai?” It is the first time he remembers that she has said his name. His mouth quirks up into a smile.

“More than two years. When I first arrived, I travel around country. It is large, like Russia. After many months, I came to New York and bought apartment.”

“I have never been here before. To America.” He sees her staring out the window, taking in the landscape as they merge onto the Belt Parkway. Now, at rush hour, it looks like flat land, billboards, and traffic. 

“New York is not so different from London. There are people and there is traffic.” Nikolai speeds into the passing lane. The traffic is heavy near the Basin bridge, but the snow has cleared enough to see the water. 

“Where are you taking me?” Anna catches his eyes in the mirror. 

“I take you to my apartment in Brooklyn. I have room ready. I thought little one was coming, too. It will be okay, yes? I can take you to hotel, if you prefer.” 

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.” She pauses, and he glances in the mirror to see her brow wrinkling. “And thank you for the tickets. They must have been very expensive.” 

“Is no problem. I am glad you are here.” Nikolai says. He is relieved that she will stay with him. 

* * *

A few minutes later, they arrive at Nikolai’s apartment. He tells her that he has purchased the top floor apartment. It’s a beautiful old brick house with curved bay windows that stands a story higher than its neighbors. The wind is blowing hard, so she tucks her head down and wraps her arms around her waist. 

“It’s so much colder than in London. I don’t know if I brought warm enough clothes.” She shivers and glances down the street to see a fence and the water beyond it. She has no idea exactly where she is, but the neighborhood seems quiet without shops or cafes like she’d expected. 

“Wind blows over water. Makes it cold. My apartment, it is warm.” Nikolai takes her bag out of the trunk and leads her towards the ornate wrought-iron gate. They walk up the two flights of brightly-lit stairs. Frosted sconces line the walls and the hallways smell faintly like someone is baking. 

They reach the third floor and Nikolai’s door, a pale ivory wood without a number. He unlocks the door and they step into a small entry way. The floors are a deep brown, the walls a dark gold. Nikolai’s apartment has some of what she’d expect from a Russian. Warm colors, gilded frames, but there’s sparseness where the Russians are usually more ornate. 

“This is lovely,” Anna says, and hands Nikolai her coat and scarf. She looks around, tries to piece together who he is from how he lives. Every detail tells her something new. 

“I will make you comfortable.” He leads her down the short hall into the open living room, with brighter, blue walls and rich green upholstered furniture. The rugs are familiar to her, patterns she grew up with in her father’s home. Dotted around the room are photographs, mostly black and white of many sizes. The room has a slightly more modern feel than she expects.

“What are these photographs?” She pauses to admire an array of black and white images of industrial landscapes. 

“Yekaterinburg. Where I was boy.” He moves closer to her and taps on the glass of one of the photos. “My grandfather, he worked in factory. He lost three fingers in accident. He was lucky. Many men die there.”

“And what about your father? You said he was a car salesman?” Anna looks over at him, notices the gray along his temples that she had not seen before. His eyes are intense and blue, cracking with humor at her question. 

“I lie,” he says, amused. “Let me show you to room.” Anna blinks as Nikolai walks to the other side of the living room and disappears down another hall. 

“What do you mean, you lied?” She can hear her mother’s voice in her head, telling her not to be so nosy.

As she approaches him, he answers her question. “When you want to be king, you tell many lies. It is way of things.” 

Anna doesn’t have an answer for that, so instead she follows him and her suitcase into the first bedroom. It’s wallpapered in a damask pattern, smoke-colored with heavy burgundy curtains and a rich coverlet on the bed. Another smaller, more ornate bed is in the corner of the room. A large brown stuffed bear sits in the middle of it.

“Small bed was for Christine. I can remove to make more room.” Nikolai approaches the bed and glances at her.

“No, no. It’s lovely. Nikolai, it is all lovely. Thank you.” Anna swallows down emotion. It must be tiredness from trip, she thinks. It’s nearly nine in London. 

“My pleasure, Anna Ivanovna,” he says, tilting his head again, the way he does that finds so endearing. “You will rest? Or you want to eat? Maybe some wine?”

“Yes, wine would be nice.” Anna glances at her suitcase. “Will we be going out again? I’d like to change.”

“I believed you would be tired after trip, so I buy some food. I will get wine and make a small meal. That will be okay?” Nikolai seems more relaxed when she looks at him again, and more handsome than ever.

“Yes, please.” Anna smiles, maybe blushes, and Nikolai leaves the room and closes the door.

* * *

Nikolai modeled his kitchen after the best features of the Trans-Siberian. He is not the cook that Semyon was, but in the two years after Semyon’s prosecution, he had learned enough. Tonight, he has prepared a selection of cold dishes that he himself loves: fois gras, beets with cucumbers and blue cheese, and chilled lobster salad. 

He has many fine things in his apartment, but Anna is the first to see them. He has been private, watching and learning how to live without violence, without the code. He is grateful for winter when he can wear gloves to hide his finger tattoos. He has thought of removing them, but he is not yet ready. 

When he hears Anna’s door open, he pours her a glass of sauvignon blanc. “You will sit, Anna. I will serve you and we will talk.”

She walks across to the wide green sofa and curls herself onto one end. She is dressed now in black pants and a simple white sweater. Her hair is combed back off her face and curves down around onto one shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she says as he offers the wine. “Are you drinking, too?” 

“Yes, of course.” Nikolai takes a few steps to the counter separating the kitchen and the living room to pick up his glass. The one simple change he had made to Semyon’s kitchen was that he did not want to hide it. 

“ _Za zdorovie_ ,” he says, toasting to their health. 

Anna tips her glass to him and drinks. 

“I will bring food.” Nikolai returns to the kitchen to gather two small white plates, forks and napkins. He turns away from the cupboard and finds Anna leaning against the counter. She has one arm over her stomach, the other holding her wine. It is golden in the light from the candles on the table behind her. 

“Why did you bring me here, Nikolai?” She fixes him with a stare.

He pauses and nods once, respectfully. “You have many questions. For now, you are beautiful and hungry woman. Let me feed you and then we will talk.” 

Nikolai passes by her with his hands full and arranges everything on the glass coffee table. “Come and sit, Anna. _Pozhaluista_. He stretches out his arm, welcoming her to enjoy his hospitality.

Anna looks at him for a long second and then carries her wine back to the sofa. Nikolai brings the plates of food to the table and thinks about her question. The answers he had thought to tell her before she arrived, seem harder now. How does he explain the life that he chose?

Nikolai sits near Anna on the sofa and serves her some of each dish. When he hands her the plate she puts down her glass and scoots forward, taking her napkin and fork. “ _Spasibo._ ”

“You speak some Russian,” he says, smiling as he spoons lobster salad onto his plate. 

“Not really. Please and thank you and a few curses from my uncle. My father only spoke English at home.” Anna puts a forkful of beets and blue cheese into her mouth and nods. She likes it. “He didn’t want me to speak Russian. Now I wish I had.”

“Why do you want to speak Russian?” Nikolai asks.

“Then I would not have gone to Semyon, gotten involved with the Vory. We were all very afraid.” Anna averts her eyes and drinks more wine. He hears her swallow. He forgets how much fear he created. 

“Then you would not have met me, Anna, and you would not be here. I am glad you do not speak Russian.” He grins at her and raises his glass again. “ _Lyubov!_ To beautiful lady.”

Anna smiles and takes a bite of the lobster salad. “This is delicious. You learned to make this all at Trans-Siberian?”

“Yes, some. Semyon was good cook.”

“Semyon was a monster,” Anna spits back, coughing.

He pauses. “This is true. But it does not mean he was not good cook.” Nikolai lets the tension pass and puts more beets and cheese on her plate. “You should eat more.” 

Anna sets down her glass with a sharp clink. “Stop it, Nikolai. Stop ‘handling’ me.” 

“What do you mean, handling you? We are having meal, talking.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“I asked you earlier why you brought me here. I want an answer.” Anna turns to face him. 

Nikolai takes a long, deep breath. It has been a long time since he’s been honest with anyone. “I was not just driver. You know this, yes?”

“Yeah. I figured that out. But you were not just Vor, were you?” 

“I was Vor. For long time, I lived as Vor soldier, spent long years in prison, did many bad things. But was also never Vor.”

“What do you mean? You were never Vor? Your tattoos…” She glances down at his knuckles, at the cross and the star. She knows what some of them mean now. 

“I lived undercover. I did what I had to do to become Vor.” He cannot look at her, remembers the murders, justifying to himself that the men deserved to die. 

“Why? For who?” Anna’s eyes are wide and uncertain.

“For FSB, Anna. For . . . many reasons.” He expected to feel better telling her. He doesn’t. “First for my family. Later, for girls like Tatiana.” She was like so many, some he saved, many he could not. 

Anna repeats his words back to him, “Slaves give birth to slaves.”

Nikolai gives a grim smile. “My father, he was _suki_ because he fought in the war. The Vory, they killed him, my uncles. I disown them to become Vor, dishonored my family for revenge. As Vor soldier, I could do nothing. But to be king...” It had been a good plan, but it had taken over his life until he knew no other way to be.

“How long, Nikolai? You must have been so young.” Anna sits back into the cushions, shaking her head. 

“Twenty-one years. Twenty-one years I was Vor. Now…” Nikolai stands and goes to the kitchen. He has not spoken of so much time before. 

He pours a shot of vodka and throws it back. Anna reminds him of what he gave up. No marriage. No family. _Ne ver’, ne boysya, ne prosi_. He pours another.

Her voice is close and soft when she approaches. “What about now? What are you now, Nikolai?” 

Nikolai hangs his head, he does not want to face her. “I am man, Anna. Just man.” The weight he has carried for so long bears down on him. He has forgotten what it feels like to care about someone. Maybe bringing Anna was a mistake. 

In her quiet way, Anna is suddenly behind him, her hands resting flat on his back. She has the gentle touch of a woman who works with babies; he, too, now feels weak and helpless.

“You are a brave man, Nikolai. You gave away your life for something you believed in. But it took too much of you.” Her arms slide around his waist and he holds onto her fingers. Her skin is warm and soft. 

“You do not know me, Anna Ivanovna. I do not know me.” The timbre of his voice rattles deeply in his chest, a truth he has not dared to admit. The warmth of Anna’s face presses against his back. It has been too long since he felt a simple comfort. 

Anna slides around his body, keeping contact until they are face to face, looking at each other. She lays her hands on his chest, taps through his shirt where he is marked with stars. “I know what you are not, Nikolai, and that is enough for me.”

Nikolai takes her in, sees that she means it. Needs to believe it can be real. He brushes hair away from her eyes, caresses the shape of her cheek, and kisses her. 

Maybe it can be.


End file.
